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14
THEO
Sullivan insists on driving me to work Monday morning, despite the fact that my car is running just fine.
“It’s not that I’m complaining,” I say, sinking into his plush leather passenger seat. “God knows I’ve always wanted my own chauffeur. But I don’t quite understand how this will help us?”
Sullivan starts the engine and pulls smoothly onto the road.
“Let me ask you something, Theo…what do you think Angus wants?”
“To go to Mars,” I say at once.
Everybody knows that.
“But what else?” Sullivan says.
I shrug, guessing, “I don’t know—maybe a girlfriend who’s not just using him for his money? Or a family member who hasn’t sued him…or electrolysis on his back? He’s got everything else.”
“Exactly,” Sullivan says with strange satisfaction. “And that’s why he’s fucking miserable.”
“Miserable!” I scoff. “It’s me who’s miserable. Angus is living the dream.”
“Dreams don’t satisfy,” Sullivan says. “It’s pursuit that drives us. Angus is so goddamned bored that he’s looking for a whole other planet to entertain him.”
“Angus has always been obsessed with Mars.”
“Maybe,” Sullivan says, changing lanes. “Or maybe it’s the one thing he can’t buy with a swipe of his credit card. People want what they can’t have…The best way to make Angus desperately want my land is to make him think he can’t have it.”
“And how are you going to do that?”
Sullivan takes his eyes off the road to give me a maddening smile.
“You’ll see.”
He dropsme off at work without even attempting to manufacture a meeting with Angus. At this rate, Sullivan should close his deal in about two hundred years.
Unfortunately for us, Angus isn’t going to wait that long.
I’ve hardly stepped inside before he shouts, “Theo! Hope you brought comfy shoes—we’ve got properties to walk.”
I did not bring comfy shoes—why would I? Everyone but Angus dresses in standard office wear. However, Idohave a pair of sneakers stashed under my desk because isn’t the first time Angus has sprung an outdoor adventure on me.
While I’m swapping out my paint-spattered stilettos, Martinique pokes her head into my phonebooth-sized office.
“Did Sullivan drop you off at work?”
“Yes,” I say carefully.
“What’s wrong?” She gives me a sneaky side-eye. “Couldn’t drive yourself after your all-night fuck fest?”
“Martinique!” I pull her inside and close the door. “Don’t say fuck fest at the office; you’ve already gotten two warnings from HR.”
“Pfft.”She flaps her hand dismissively. “Only one of those was valid.”
“It wasn’t valid when you slapped our accountant on the ass?”
Martinique shrugs. “I thought she was you—that was the day she dyed her hair. Well, actually, probably the day after…I’m assuming she didn’t dye it in the morning. Anyway, quit changing the subject—why are we talking about uptight Leanne-from-accounting when we could be discussingSullivan?”
